


Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

by ShastaFirecracker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Human Castiel, M/M, Mardi Gras, New Orleans, One Night Stands, Openly Bisexual Dean, PWP, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is twenty-one, and this is his first time in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Everything in his life's looking up for the first time in years and it's turning into the best week of his life. The icing on the cake comes when a costumed stranger he can only think of as an angel leans in close and offers him a proposition he's more than happy to take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. I finished my big long domestic fluffverse. I was still behind on NaNoWriMo wordcount. I read a bunch of meet-cute "imagine your OTP" posts on tumblr. I watched a bunch of con panel clips. Misha told stories he instantly regretted. Inspiration happened.
> 
> I regret nothing.

Dean Winchester is surrounded by noise and flash and color and _people_ – the _people!_ He's been in urban crushes before, cramming into subway trains, pushing through downtown mobs, but this is something from an alien world – faces of all colors and sizes, some masks, some painted, feathers everywhere, a glittering sequined rainbow high, like an acid trip, the good kind, because every face is laughing and catcalling and whistling long and loud and high, at odds with the thrum of drummers and the sax band down the street, creating a wall of sound like a summoning ritual to call up something huge and dangerous and joyous and free.

Dean Winchester is twenty-one, and this is his first time in New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

He has no idea what time it is. After midnight, for sure. He'd lost Benny in the crowd what feels like years ago, at least three blocks ago, because somehow the crest of people in front of a float had picked Dean up like an ocean current, and he's been walking with them, shouting and laughing, whistling to the half-moon until his throat's sore and his lips sting. He's wearing his brown leather jacket, jeans with tears, beaten boots. He would be inappropriately drab for the occasion if not for the fact that Benny had refused to let him put a shirt on under the jacket, and had covered his chest in a swirl of red and purple and gold body paint.

If Benny weren't straight as a ruler and engaged to Andrea, Dean might have drawn his attention to the fact that putting his hands all over Dean's chest had done some real damage downstairs. Instead, Dean had kept his pants on like a good friend, and suffered at half-mast until getting some distance gave him the chance to cool off.

He's added more color over the night in the form of endless beads, medallions on long cords, glittery smudges from dancers getting too close, some neon feathers stuck in his hair. If he had the presence of mind to worry, he might be concerned about cleaning his jacket, but he's too dizzy on a drugless high to give a shit about the paint on the inside or the sequins sticking to his sleeves.

His night hasn't been entirely substance-free, of course. It's New Orleans, it's Mardi Gras, he's been here for five days visiting Benny and Lenore and their friends – if he hasn't drunk his own weight in hurricanes and zombies by now, he'll eat his left shoe. He hasn't been completely sober in at least three days, but he also hasn't gotten hammered enough that he'll forget any of this.

He has no interest in forgetting this week. It's been a fucking _amazing_ week. Sam got seven different acceptance letters and four huge scholarship offers – his hard choice is no longer whether he'll go to college or not, but rather which Ivy League he feels like picking. Dad took a weekend out of his voluntary rehab program to visit his sons and the Singers last week, and he'd been _smiling,_ and everything was comfortable in the Winchester family like it hasn't been in years. Benny, who's a few years older than Dean, had proposed to Andrea – not that any of their friends hadn't seen that coming – and she'd said yes.

Dean can't remember a single week of his life that's been more packed with good news and happiness. His whole body is singing with it. The buzz of the alcohol is like an afterthought. Sammy's back at home reading about schools, Bobby's shop is bustling with business, Dad hasn't had a drink in six months, Benny's getting married at sea this June, there's glitter in the air, and Dean's howling at the moon.

Then a deep voice in his ear says, “I'll give you twenty bucks for a blowjob.”

Dean spins around, almost tripping over his own feet. It's not the most lewd thing he's heard in the last five days (he's seen as many tits in the last hour as he usually does over the course of a year in Lawrence), but it's _right in his ear,_ overly specific and hard to miss. Especially in that voice – whiskey and smoke, a voice that comes straight from the chest, that rumbles like an earthquake.

Dean half-expects a huge guy to be standing behind him, but hands grab him to stop him from falling when he spins, and when his vision stops swirling and he sets eyes on his propositioner, he's no bigger than Dean. A hair's breadth shorter, in fact, and his build is lean but nowhere near thin. Which Dean can clearly see, because he's only wearing chrome-silver shorts, sandals laced up to his knees, and a mask.

It's silver, too, a blank face like a porcelain doll – Dean's seen a ton of the same style here in the last few days – but it's edged with clear jagged crystal shapes softened by a spray of white feathers over the top. The cheeks are freckled with a smattering of blue and clear rhinestones, like water or tears. The only part of his face Dean can see are his eyes – but that's enough, honestly, because either his last hurricane or the sparkling lights all around them or some kind of bizarre hallucination makes him think that those eyes are so blue they're _unreal._ They're more blue than the rhinestone tear tracks on his mask, more blue than the water all around the city.

Dean just gapes at him, gazes locked, aware of the intense physicality of the other guy's hands still touching his arms where he'd kept Dean from tripping. Dean wouldn't normally be so stunned, but given the state he's in he can't really blame himself. After a heartbeat that feels like five minutes, he says, “What?”

The angel in the mask leans a little closer to him, hands still holding Dean's arms gently near the elbow, and again he rumbles out, “Twenty bucks -”

Dean's brain catches up with what's actually happening and he interrupts without really meaning to, unable to stop his mouth from blurting, “Oh – no, that's – I don't -”

He's not a hooker, is what he's trying to say, although there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong in his mind with going down on Mask Guy – mostly what he's thinking, and failing to articulate, is that he'd do it for free, just for the opportunity to touch the flat, muscled chest streaked with silver glitter that is currently heaving with the exertion of dancing and singing and yelling over the crowd.

“No,” says Mask Guy, leaning even closer, and Dean can smell a whiff of sweet smoke and amaretto on his breath, which emerges from a tiny slit in the mouth of the mask; “I mean, twenty bucks if you'll let me blow you.”

And there goes Dean's brain. It's gone. Right out over the crowd, over the floats and the lights, right off back to Kansas, leaving his body aching and directionless, and his letting his dick do all the talking. Which is how he says, “Yeah, okay,” before he even thinks about it, and also how he fails to feel even a modicum of regret or apprehension the whole time Mask Guy moves his hands down Dean's arms and gets a firmer grip on his wrists.

The weeping angel, as Dean's begun to think of him, leads Dean through the crowd with the sort of sure footing and confident direction that means he must live here, or at least be more familiar with the French Quarter than Dean is. Dean drinks in the sight of his back, the slide of muscle under smooth skin, and the way the silver shorts are like a thin layer of paint over his mouth-watering ass. From the one look Dean got, he doesn't have much ab definition (Dean doesn't either, so he feels a little better about his own body), but his thighs are like a marble statue. They're like a fucking anatomy lesson. Dean almost wants to pull him back and ask to swap the roles back to what Dean first thought the angel meant – because Dean would keep this guy's dick in his mouth for _hours_ just so he could also keep his hands on those legs and that ass.

The angel takes them off Bourbon, down a side street, and then off down a long stretch of Ursulines, away from the river. Dean's had plenty of time to learn the layout of the Quarter – it's not very big, in truth – but he knows they're going away from the crowds, away from the routes of most of the krewes, and also away from all the places with which he's familiar. Finally a tiny bit of logic creeps back into his brain and he tugs his wrists in the angel's grip, slipping one hand free with no contest. The angel half-turns to look back at him.

“Where are we going?” Dean yells. The krewe he'd been watching and partly following all night is a few blocks away, but there isn't a single street in the Quarter that isn't crowded with partyers and drunk college students – so it's not like he's _alone_ with the angel, if he turns out to be trouble of some kind. But every block they walk takes him further from where he last saw Benny, and that tickles at the edge of Dean's consciousness, one tiny flashing alarm.

The angel takes a step back to Dean, close enough to smell his breath again, and he leans close to Dean's ear to say, “Treme, the edge of the park. Is that too far?”

Dean relaxes. They're only one more block from the park, and he won't get lost from there. He grins and shakes his head. “Lead on, Macduff,” he says to the side of the angel's mask, and he doesn't think he imagines the way the other man shivers. It's February, and maybe in any other place Dean could blame the shiver on cold, but here it's Gulf-warm and humid, and the streets are churning with body heat and a million lit candles, firedancers, floodlights on floats. Dean's been barechested all night and hasn't felt cold for a second.

The angel says something else, Dean thinks, but a group of girls shrieking with laughter bumps past them just then. A couple of them notice Dean and his companion and wolf-whistle at them. One makes as if to pull up her shirt. Dean laughs and pushes the angel to keep walking.

The mask only covers the angel's face. From behind him, Dean tries to figure out if his hair is really as black as it looks, or simply dark brown that's been inked darker by the nighttime and the color-distorting lights everywhere. The spray of white feathers peeks over the top of his head, glowing in the oddball lights like a halo.

Even though the park is edged with a fence, it's still extremely exposed where it fronts against North Rampart Street. Dean looks around for where this theoretical liason is supposed to take place; he's open to just about anything, but there's public sex in a closed bathroom or whatever, and then there's _public_ sex, and Dean isn't so sure he'd be into the latter. Mostly because getting arrested is a big turn-off.

But the angel easily climbs up and jumps the top of the fence, landing on the other side with a little bit of bend in his knees, and _good god_ the way that single action makes his thighs move... Dean's over the fence with him in a heartbeat, grabbing his hand again and holding it tight as the angel pulls him further along the edge of the park, towards a dense stand of trees cloaked in darkness.

Dean touches the back of the angel's hand with his thumb and realizes that they weren't holding hands before – the other guy was holding Dean's wrist, but only lightly despite where they're going, because they're strangers. Holding his hand properly feels different – personal. Familiar. Dean flexes his hand around the stranger's, loving his long fingers and warm palm. The stranger grips back reflexively.

Under the trees, near the small lake in the park, they lose the sight of other people. Not the sound – the music is still thumping, even here, and the collective scream of voices that means this is a party that won't be stopping until dawn – but the lights are shrouded here, and even though there's space between the trees where anyone might walk by, Dean feels more or less alone.

He lets himself really think about this for half a second. He's spent the whole walk just admiring the angel guy's incredible body, letting himself get turned on in an impersonal sort of way, like looking at photos of a model. But the angel isn't unattainable; he's right here, right now, real. Dean stops walking, still holding the angel's hand, and it tugs the other guy to a halt within his next step. He turns and looks back at Dean again, head tilting slightly to the side, and Dean can imagine his quizzical expression even though he can only see the porcelain doll mask.

Dean flickers his gaze around to the nearest tree, and squeezes his hand around the angel's while he walks backwards towards the trunk. He licks his lips and this time it's the angel who nearly stumbles and falls, and Dean who holds him up with an hand on his elbow. Dean tugs the guy closer, until they're only a few inches apart. When Dean's back bumps into the tree, momentum brings the angel onward to bump lightly into Dean's chest.

“Here?” Dean asks.

A pause. “There's a wall... over that way...” He trails off.

“Here?” Dean asks again, but this time it's more of a request than a question and he punctuates it by rolling his hips forward, leaving his back planted against the tree. His groin makes passing contact with those silver shorts.

“Fuck,” says the angel, and immediately slides to his knees.

Dean wasn't expecting it, and he lets out a surprised grunt when hands wrap around the backs of his calves. He was thinking the angel could lift his mask, Dean could get a look at his face, maybe they'd make out some. But then he wonders why he's surprised, since the other guy is only holding true to his word. He'd said blowjob; he meant blowjob. Right on to the main event, then.

He's going to have to lift the mask, though. Dean really, really wants to be the one to do it; he wants to see what kind of mouth produces that kind of voice, and then he wants to stick his tongue in it to taste the amaretto sour he can smell every time the angel speaks. But neither of them agreed to that and now the angel's hands are already leaving Dean's knees, running up his jean-covered thighs, flattening over his paint-streaked stomach and then returning lower again. Dean's chest catches. He reminds himself to breathe. The angel's bare knees are in the grass, his feet tilted in to each other in an adorable duck-footed way, and Dean puts his hands firmly on the tree bark behind him before he goes and touches the angel uninvited.

The angel seems to remember the mask as soon as he leans his face towards Dean's crotch and is stymied by it. He takes his hands off Dean for a second and pulls the mask off unceremoniously, dropping it to the side in the grass. And here Dean was thinking the guy was trying to be mysterious, when in all probability he'd just forgotten he was wearing the thing.

But he doesn't look up, so Dean can still only see his maybe-black hair and a hint of the top of his nose while he presses his face into Dean's jeans. Dean groans and leans his head back in anticipation, blood plummeting south before he's even had a chance to get touched. Dean hasn't exactly been walking around with a stiffy all night, but his dick definitely remembers Benny's hands and the swirls of body paint – and the dozens of pairs of gorgeous breasts he's seen tonight; and the way the waiter had flirted with him back at that diner at lunchtime; and the way he'd gotten caught between a couple of dancing figures during the last krewe a few hours ago, people so costumed he couldn't even tell their genders, although he's positive _someone_ had ground the hard line of an erection against his ass at one point.

The point is, Mardi Gras is Bacchanalian for a reason, and Dean hasn't gotten laid in at least a couple of months. Not that he hasn't thought about picking someone up since pretty much the moment he rolled into town... but he's honestly been having too much fun hanging out with his friends, and his happiness about his life in general has precluded hunting down an easy fling, since that's something he tends to do when he feels down, not up.

But right now he's up – top of the world up, high as a kite up. And an angel is mouthing over the glitter-spattered denim on his thigh while Dean pops a boner so fast he'd swear he was still fifteen.

The angel rubs a hand over Dean's crotch, seeking out the line of his cock through the layers, and Dean groans again, rolling his hips forward into the action. He eases his hands off the tree trunk and onto his belt buckle, just thinking to help out, but as soon as he flicks the strip of leather open, hands grab his and move them away. Dean withdraws his palms to the rough bark while the angel takes a deep breath against his hip, as if to smell him (he can't smell good, surely – mostly of alcohol and weed fumes, with a hint of the briny sharpness that permeates the whole city).

The angel moves his hands to Dean's fly. Dean tries to pretend he doesn't tremble a little with unchecked desire. He's past that, isn't he? He can act cool about this. It's not like it's the first time anyone's sucked his dick. A quick blow, nut off in ten, get back to Benny with a little more swagger in his step and a nice relaxed glow to help put him to sleep.

But when Dean's jeans are hanging open and the angel is just about to pull his cock out, Dean says, “Hey.”

And the angel looks up. And Dean loses his mind all over again.

_Jesus Christ, he's gorgeous._ There's some kohl or eyeliner or something around his eyes, and it makes the blue of his irises pop insanely bright, even in the dim tree cover. He's got high cheekbones and a smudge of stubble and chapped lips that Dean imagines around his dick and then nearly loses his footing because they're _going_ to be around his dick, and they'd already _be_ around his dick if he didn't keep interrupting. But knowing what the angel looks like makes the act ten times hotter, and Dean licks his lips wantonly, feeling much wilder than he has on previous one-night stands.

“Yeah?” asks the angel, still waiting for Dean to justify calling him away from his task.

_Fucking hell that voice._

Dean sucks in a short breath before he remembers how to speak. His real brain takes over again, just for a moment. “You want a condom?” he asks. “I think there's one in my wallet.”

A soft smile touches the angel's lips and Dean shivers again. “Do I need one?” he asks, running his hand over Dean's crotch while their eyes are locked.

Dean gasps in another bit of air. He can't remember how to breathe properly. “I'm clean,” he admits, “but you know you probably shouldn't take my word for that.”

“I think I trust you,” says the angel, and he tugs the waistband of Dean's boxers down so that his cock springs free.

“Fuck,” Dean rasps. “You...”

The angel spits into his hand, wraps Dean's shaft in his fist, and pops the head of Dean's dick into his mouth with no preamble.

Dean's head falls back against the tree. Oh, it's good, so fucking good – tight slick hand, _hot_ mouth; the instant of first contact in which Dean's shaft is still velvet-dry and the angel's lips are still air-dry and the tender skin on both of them sticks together and catches and pulls, but then the angel slips back a fraction and there's enough saliva for everything to slipslide nice and smooth, locking together like they're meant for it, like the angel's mouth is just fucking _made_ for this...

For a glorious minute, maybe two, Dean can't think about anything except how ungodly hot this is. He tips his chin back down to watch the way the head of his dick disappears into the angel's unfairly gorgeous lips. A delicious heat curls out through his groin and thighs and stomach, a low simmer set to last, and it occurs to him that at this pace, hot and sensuous as it is, it'll definitely be more than ten minutes before he comes. This is marathon technique, really, not a sprint.

The angel's hand slips further back on Dean's dick, into the short and curlies, and he eases another couple of inches into his mouth – and promptly chokes.

He slides back quick, keeping his coughing to a minimum, and immediately goes back to bobbing over the head, but even while Dean's reeling from how much he totally wants this to happen, he also can't help but notice that... well, frankly, it doesn't seem like the angel knows what he's doing.

An awful, gut-chilling though occurs to Dean, and he jerks his hips back in something like a panic. He pops out of the angel's lips. Suddenly removed from the heat of a mouth and covered in spit, the February air finally does a number on him – it's chilly enough that Dean automatically reaches for his dick, shivering, wanting to keep it from shrinking on the spot.

The angel looks up at Dean, and Dean suddenly realizes he looks nervous.

“How old are you?” Dean blurts.

Relief washes over the angel's face, like he'd been worried Dean was going to say something else. “Twenty,” he says.

Dean lets his breath out in a whoosh. _Definitely the kind of question to ask_ before _your penis is in their mouth, asshole. Besides, inexperience doesn't equal underage._ “Sorry,” he says. “It just hit me...”

“Why?” asks the angel, sounding a little nervous again.

Dean shifts. “Uh,” he says. “Nothing, it's fine. You wanna keep going?”

The angel hesitates, but nods. He takes Dean's dick back in hand and Dean lets him, moving his own hand back to the tree. The angel tentatively wraps his lips around the head again, licking up and down, doing a fumbly sort of swirl with his tongue. He eases his mouth further down, but only for a moment before drawing back, as if afraid.

Dean's not losing interest, thankfully, because a hot mouth is a hot mouth and technique is all just icing on the already-aroused cake, but he can only stand there saying nothing through another couple of minutes of this.

Finally, he clears his throat a little to get the angel's attention. Before he can even open his mouth to say anything, the angel pulls off with a wet pop and sits back on his heels, shoulders curved forward. “I'm sorry,” he says, almost too quiet for Dean to hear. “I'll just...”

“Hey,” Dean says. “First time?”

Slowly, the angel nods, still not looking up.

“Learning to impress someone?” Dean asks. “Or just checking it off your bucket list, or what?”

The angel huffs something like a laugh, self-effacing and disgusted. “Just... didn't think I'd ever get the chance without buying it.”

Dean blinks. “Whoa.” He draws his hips back against the tree, sliding out of the angel's hand, who lets him go. He moves his hands from the tree trunk but hovers, uncertain as to whether he should touch the other guy. “Why not?” Dean asks. He's probably prying way too much for this sort of chance encounter; the guy signed up for experimentation, not therapy.

The angel finally looks up at him with a bemused blink. “I'm not...” He makes a tiny, aborted gesture. “Like this,” he says. “No one looks at me and wants... stuff like this.”

Dean blinks and reels back again. “Why the hell _not?”_ he asks a little more harshly than he meant to.

The angel squints at him and tilts his head like he did earlier, with the mask on.

Dean opens and closes his mouth, at a loss. He's still buzzed enough on alcohol and partying that he simultaneously wants to say soppy things, and has no functional vocabulary with which to say them. He settles on, “You're fucking _beautiful.”_

The angel looks like he doesn't believe it, but his lips quirk up anyway. He huffs a little laugh. “Thanks? I mean, nice to know you're gay, at least.”

Dean snorts. “Bi. And what did you think I was, coming with you like this?”

The angel shrugs. “You know many half-drunk college guys who would turn down _anyone_ offering to pay them to suck their dick?”

Dean's mouth hangs open for a second and then he laughs, too loud for the moment but totally honest, suckered out of him by the angel's dry humor. “Good point,” he says. “But nah, man, you're hot. If you put yourself out there, I promise there'll be takers. I'm one.”

It's hard to tell in the dim light, but Dean thinks the angel's blushing.

Dean chews his lip. “First time giving head or first time, you know. Anything?”

The angel shakes his head. “I've done some stuff.”

Dean snickers. It sounds like a bad war movie line. He swallows and shifts his weight against the tree. “Listen,” he says, perfectly aware of the fact that his now half-hard dick is still hanging out of his pants, right at the angel's mouth level. “There's not much to learning how to give a blowjob. Enthusiasm's half the battle.”

The angel looks up at Dean again, still and studying.

Dean swallows again, harder. He sinks back against the tree. “You want me to teach you?” he asks, throat a little dry.

Slowly, licking his plush lips, the angel nods.

Dean sucks in a deep breath. Now maybe they're getting somewhere. He takes himself in hand, idly stroking himself back up. “So,” he says, and the angel's eyes flicker to his hand moving on his dick, “the main thing is to get your tongue more involved.”

The angel nods.

“Doesn't have to move so much,” Dean says, heat sparking up once again in his groin. “Just sort of. Let the dick rest on it. And lick.”

The angel shifts forward on his knees, reaching out to lay his hand over Dean's. “Can I?” he asks with a glance upward.

Dean takes his hand away. “Hey, it's your show, man.” His voice wavers just a smidge.

Once again the angel puts his mouth over Dean, but this time he takes Dean's advice and instead of trying to do complicated tricks, he lets Dean lie hard and heavy on his tongue, sliding it up and down the bottom of the shaft.

Dean shudders out a sigh. “Yep,” he says. “Second thing is, it's called sucking off for a reason.”

The angel snorts a little, dragging his tongue along Dean's dick, up to the head and back down. He takes in a couple of inches, jaw stretched, and then applies some tentative suction.

Dean gasps out loud and wriggles his shoulders against the tree. “Yeaaah,” he sighs, “just play around with those two things.”

Which he does. Dean wasn't kidding; fancy tricks are all well and good, but the end goal of orgasm just isn't all that hard to achieve as long as you've got the basics. Dean's back at aching hardness within minutes, and this time he's not noticing the passage of time at _all._ His guts squirm delightfully as the angel brings enthusiasm back to the party, egged on by all the little sounds and twitches Dean's making. Dean lets himself be a little extra vocal, just for encouragement.

He licks his lips and finally says, “The rest of it is, uh, mostly about figuring out your partner,” he says, voice trembling. “I mean, there's the spot under the head – that does it for most guys – oh _fuck!”_ Because the angel takes his advice in real time and digs his tongue in just that spot, and gives a suck so impressive that his cheeks hollow out.

Dean groans loudly. He's forgotten they're technically in public. “Fu-u-uck,” he mumbles, trying to keep from rocking his hips into the angel's mouth. Guy could clearly not deal with deep-throating yet, from his earlier attempt to go deep. “Okay. So personally, I uh, I like teeth – just, like, just a touch -”

The tiniest scrape over the bottom of his shaft, catching along the central vein. Dean's knees turn to jelly.

“And,” he gasps, voice half an octave higher, “balls...”

The angel tugs at Dean's pants and slides his hand between Dean's legs, managing in his excitement to massage not only Dean's balls but also his perineum.

“Christ, that's it,” Dean moans, tucking one hand behind his head to keep it tilted down so he doesn't lose sight of the angel going to town on him. His other hand hovers before finally, finally touching the angel's hair, gently, uncertain. The angel twitches under him and snatches his hand away from Dean's balls long enough to take Dean's hand and settle it firmly against his head, encouraging Dean to curl his fingers through that thick, soft, maybe-black mane.

_Now_ this is it. _Now_ this is perfect. And Dean lets himself go, lets himself fantasize wildly while the angel just gets better by the second – he thinks about fucking that mouth instead, or turning around and those lips being on his ass, biting into soft flesh, eating him out, licking him open wide right here in this park. He thinks about the rest of the angel's body, which he tragically can't see much of from his vantage point, and about peeling off the silver shorts and returning this favor. He wants to discover the angel's weak spots, too, and give him a few more tips and pointers while he does. He'd oh so happily suck the angel nice and wet, jump up against this tree, and let the angel fuck him nine ways to Sunday, until he can't walk back to his motel.

He's getting close. The angel moans and his hand leaves Dean's balls, dives out of sight, and Dean almost wants to tell him _no, no, wait, let me make you come, please._ But he doesn't because his eyes are watering with pleasure and his legs are weak with impending collapse.

He clenches his hand in the angel's hair and says, “Hey, hey – I'm gonna – you gotta -”

The angel resists his pull at first but Dean doesn't relent. He pops free again, but this time he's too turned on to even notice the cool air. “Fu – ah, ah,” Dean gasps, dropping his hand down from behind his head to grab his dick and tug fast, hard, urgent, while the other hand holds the angel back, but still close enough to - 

Come hits the angel's chin first, then his collarbone. Dean's vision blurs as the heat explodes through him, stiffening his spine, weakening his knees, losing all sense of up or down or weight or gravity. He pants and watches the jizz streak down the angel's long, gorgeous neck, dripping over silver glitter and pooling in his clavicle.

Then Dean really looks the angel in the eyes and realizes that he's close too. He's right there, _right_ there, brought to the edge just by the action of making Dean come.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, “yeah, angel, come for me,” and then the angel bows back a little and does. Even though Dean can't see it, he must be climaxing. No one makes a face that rapturous and filthy without the accompaniment of a mind-blowing orgasm.

Dean absently massages his cock through the last aftershocks while the angel rocks back on his heels. A whimpery little sound punches out of him, release and relief and a sudden loss of tension. He slips a few inches to the side, off his feet, and catches himself on one hand in an inelegant sprawl. Dean lets himself slide down the tree, leather jacket scraping up between his shoulder blades. He blows a long breath out between pursed lips and his knees creak as he drops his legs out in front of him one by one. Then he grimaces and pushes up from the ground just enough to tug his pants up over his ass, because the ground is cold and the grass feels damp.

After a long minute of silence and deep breathing, Dean looks directly at the angel and makes eye contact.

And somehow, both of them start to laugh. Dean isn't sure who cracks first, but the angel's whole face scrunches into it, flashing gums and white teeth, eyes crinkling up so far they're nearly closed. And even though Dean's already laughing, he decides to blame how adorable the angel's smile is for why Dean broke in the first place.

Dean leans his head back against the tree, hiccuping for air, while the angel pulls his legs around into a more comfortable arrangement on the grass. His silver shorts are still perfectly in place and Dean's dick gives a helpless twitch at the fact that he must have come in them and is just leaving it to deal with later. Speaking of which, Dean finally tucks himself back into his boxers and tugs his jeans up a bit more, because the air is quite cool without the flush of arousal in his skin or the crush of people all around him to warm him up.

In fact, the angel shivers a bit. Dean takes a good look at him – his nipples are hard, and Dean's betting it's more because of temperature than what they just did. Dean sits forward from the tree trunk and shrugs out of his jacket.

The angel's eyes go wide. Dean reaches over and tugs at his hand, and he resists. “Oh, no, you don't -”

Dean succeeds at pulling him forward enough that Dean can toss the jacket around his shoulders. “Will you shut up and let me be a gentleman?” he asks.

The angel cracks another smile and gives in, tugging the jacket closer.

“Have fun?” Dean asks, grinning.

The angel laughs again, ducking his head. He's so fucking cute, acting all embarrassed like this after he just sucked Dean's brain out through his dick. “Was it any good?” he asks.

Dean makes a disbelieving sound. “I'm sorry, are you covered in spunk or not?”

The angel grimaces at him. “Easy cleanup is the one benefit of this 'costume', I suppose,” he says, raising his hands to make airquotes.

Dean barks a laugh. “I could use a shower myself,” he says, looking down at his chest and seeing how ruined his body paint has become. “I guess I'm about partied out.”

The angel nods, giving Dean an odd look – almost like longing. He bites his spit-shiny, swollen lip for a moment, then blurts, “You're beautiful too.”

Dean blinks at him. “Huh?”

He tilts his head in that birdlike way. “I saw you around,” he says. “Just walking with the krewe, laughing. I'd already lost the nerve to do this stupid thing I told myself I was going to do, and then I saw you and I wanted to try all over again.”

An unwarranted warm flush begins to rise in Dean's cheeks as well. Why is he embarrassed? He knows a lot of people find him attractive. Hell, he finds himself attractive. But the angel's saying that he found Dean _inspirational,_ which is a whole other kettle of fish.

A slow smile cracks over Dean's face and he tilts his head at the angel the same way the angel does to him. “Hey, angel,” he says, “you got a name?”

The angel jumps a little and he gives Dean that strange expression again. “Why do you keep calling me that?” he asks.

“What?”

“Angel.”

Dean laughs. “Dunno,” he says, “it was the first thing that popped into my head. The mask helped.”

The other guy gapes at him for a moment. Then he pulls himself together and says, “I'm Castiel.”

Dean tips his head again. “Weird name.”

“It's the name of an angel.”

Dean's mouth doesn't actually drop open, but he feels like it ought to.

“Actually,” continues the angel nervously, “it's a corruption of Cassiel, one of the seven archangels, but the, um, the nurse spelled it wrong on my birth certificate, and then my mother liked how it sounded, and -”

Dean interrupts him with a howl of laughter and a full-body shake of disbelief. Grinning like a loon, he rolls up onto his knees so that he's right between Castiel's legs, looking the other boy right in the face. “I'm Dean,” he says, holding his hand between them.

Castiel stares at his too-close face and then his hand and hesitantly takes the proferred fingers as if for a handshake. Instead, Dean grips him and tugs his mouth right onto Dean's.

Castiel jumps, startled, but Dean presses their lips together mindlessly, opening his mouth in invitation. After only half a heartbeat, Castiel kisses back, somewhere between dazed and urgent. Dean licks into his mouth and finds that beneath the bitter and salt of Dean's own precome, he still tastes like amaretto and whatever sweetness it was that Dean smelled on his breath before.

For an endless, breathless time, they kiss with a hunger Dean hasn't shared with many of his casual partners. Especially not after they've both already come and should probably be putting themselves back together to part ways. Castiel pushes Dean back onto his ass again, back against the tree, and licks and sucks at his lips and tongue like he's still practicing those blowjob moves. He might be otherwise unpracticed, but he's definitely kissed before. Dean moans faintly into his mouth, intoxicated by the taste of him, and he brings both his hands up into the angel's hair, bracketing his neck with his elbows as if to hold him close forever. Dean may be feeling extra happy and sappy from the events of the week, but this is – this is honestly too much. His heart swells up and he finds himself wanting to _cuddle_ with this strange, shy but forward, virginal but filthy Mardi Gras angel, and Dean Winchester _never_ wants to cuddle.

Castiel is the one who finally pulls back, gulping in air, looking stunned. “Uh,” he says.

“That okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” says Castiel. “I didn't think... I mean, this is – more than I'd hoped for.” He cracks a sheepish smile.

Dean licks his lips. “I was gonna offer to return the favor,” he says, gesturing vaguely downward, “but you beat me to it.”

Castiel's eyes widen fractionally and he swallows.

Dean licks his lips again, chasing amaretto and sugar. “Rain check?” he asks.

Castiel opens his mouth but no sound emerges. His eyes flicker all over Dean's face – kiss-puffed lips and blown pupils and the relaxed set of his rough jaw – and he licks his lips too, drawing the lower one between his teeth for a moment. “Do you live here?” Castiel asks.

Dean's mood sinks a little bit, but he remains optimistic. He shakes his head. “Kansas,” he says. “I'm visiting friends. I'm here for another two days.”

Castiel nods, looking nervous. “I go to LSU,” he says. “Live in Port Allen.”

“Hey!” Dean says, grinning. “My friend lives in Baton Rouge. We're just here for Mardi Gras – he proposed to his girl down on the river and all.”

Castiel smiles back. “How'd it go?”

“Said yes,” Dean grins. “Benny made a big scene of it and a jazz band followed us around for the next hour playing love songs and 'here comes the bride.'”

Castiel throws his head back and laughs. His single-malt voice seems like it ought to make a rough, raspy laugh, but instead it's rich and sonorous, like it's coming right up from the bottom of the deep well of his diaphragm. Without thinking, Dean slips a hand down from Castiel's shoulder to his chest, resting his palm in the middle of the solar plexus, feeling the rise and fall. His skin's cool from the weather but contact with Dean's palm warms it right up. Dean strokes his stomach absently, picking up traces of silver glitter.

The wind picks up in a brief gust, sending a shiver down Dean's back and ruffling Castiel's already-flyaway hair in the dark. Castiel's laughter slows and stills, but his belly keeps moving under Dean's hand, warm and alive, and Dean really doesn't want to get up and walk away from this. He doesn't know what time it is, but it has to be after one in the morning. His eyelids are heavy but inside he doesn't feel tired – it doesn't feel like he'll ever be tired again.

At length, Castiel says, “I love New Orleans. I've always wished I could move here.”

“Why can't you?”

Castiel smiles softly. “I might,” he says. “After I graduate.”

Dean rolls his head back against the tree and grins. “Well,” he says, “who knows where I'll be in the next couple years. I might just get a hankering to move south.”

Even in the dark, Dean can see the pink flooding Castiel's face. He chews his lower lip again. “Well,” he says, “look me up if you come around here.”

“Plan to.”

Castiel hesitates for a split second before closing the distance to Dean's lips. He licks into Dean's mouth with the gentleness of familiarity, and it's like he's chasing some flavor on Dean's tongue, too. The amaretto is fading as it's shared, the alcohol tang fuming away, and together with the sweetness it's mellowing into a flavor a bit like an almond shortbread cookie. Dean sighs into Castiel's mouth, relishing the taste and the slick sweet movement, thinking he'll never be able to taste almonds again without remembering a shy, gorgeous angel in silver shorts, wrapped in his leather jacket against a mild February chill.

With enormous reluctance, Dean finally pulls away. Castiel chews his shiny lower lip, then pushes back and stands up, reaching down immediately to give Dean a hand. Dean groans complaint as he stands – his butt is numb, his back has a crick in it, and he's pretty sure his pants are damp.

But it was totally worth it.

While Dean settles his underwear where it ought to be and tugs his jeans closed, Castiel takes a step to the side and reaches down to pick up his silver doll mask. He holds it up facing himself and takes a good look at it, then turns it to face Dean and tilts his head. “Angel?” he asks.

Dean grins and shrugs, sticking his fingers in his pockets. “Well, with the white feathers and all.”

Castiel looks at it again. “Huh,” he says, and loops the strap around his wrist rather than putting it back on.

With minimal awkwardness, they start to walk towards the edge of the park. This time they aim for the front gate, still lit and open and dotted with whooping people. Dean draws his phone out of his pocket to check the time – it's just after two, and he has two missed calls from Benny and a text saying “just let me know you're not dead brother, I'm heading to the hotel.”

Dean shoots a reply that he's headed that way, too, and notices Castiel watching him. Dean taps over to his contact list and holds his phone out. “You want in?” he asks, grinning.

Castiel huffs a laugh, but he takes the phone. He stops walking for a moment to type. Dean halts half a step ahead and watches him. After a moment, Castiel hands the phone back. Dean checks the screen; the new entry is under _Cas,_ no last name, nothing else.

Castiel suddenly pats at his shorts and looks down at his feet. “I can't get yours,” he says. “I don't have anything to write with.”

Dean just hits call on the new entry, raising an eyebrow at Castiel. _Cas._ Dean likes the short version. Raising his phone to his ear, he steps forward into Cas's personal space and puts a hand on his waist. Cas looks at him quizzically.

After a few rings, a voicemail message starts playing. As soon as it beeps, Dean darts forward and kisses Cas, holding the phone up right next to their faces. He makes the kiss as sloppy and deep as possible, wrenching a startled moan out of Castiel; Dean adds his own moan, frankly pornographic, just to be sure. Then he pulls back, ends the call, and sticks his phone in his pocket. He leans to Cas's ear and says, “Just so you'll know which missed call was from me.”

Cas is red as a beet, but his eyes sparkle that wild open-sea blue, and he's grinning wide enough to show his gums and crinkle his cheeks again. “That was uncalled for,” he says, leaning into Dean.

Dean laughs. He leaves his hand around Castiel's waist as they resume walking out of the park. This time they take North Rampart for a while, arms around each other, looking like a couple, or like friends who've known each other forever. “You're not still gonna try to pay me, are you?” Dean asks, leaning over into Castiel's ear, tone light and teasing.

Cas chokes back a laugh that's more like a giggle. “Only if you want money I've been walking on all night. It's in my sandal, there aren't exactly pockets in this thing.” He snaps the waistband of his shorts.

Dean snorts. “I don't want your stinkin' foot money,” he drawls.

As they walk down Rampart, chatting in idle comfort, Dean begins to realize that he kind of wishes he could spend the night with Cas. He's chilly where he's not pressed up against Castiel's side, and frankly a nice warm body sounds like a better pillow than his lumpy pull-out sofa bed in the cheap single room he's sharing with Benny. And he doesn't want to break from Cas and walk the rest of the way back in silence. He could listen to Castiel's voice all night. He _wants_ to listen to Castiel's voice all night.

But it's Cas who broaches the subject first. “Where are you staying?” he asks, drifting both of them to a halt at the corner of Toulouse.

“The Prince Conti,” Dean says.

Cas lights up at once. “Seriously? I'm on the same block, Holiday Inn.”

Dean's heart does an alarming skip. “You alone?” he asks, maybe a little too hopefully.

Cas sighs. “No, I'm sharing with my twin sister.”

Dean bites his lip against a laugh. “That'd be awkward, then.”

“You?”

Dean shakes his head. “Couch crashing with the newly-engaged.”

Cas hums. “You're here for two more days?”

Dean nods.

“I'm here for another week,” Cas admits. “Do you – would you want to meet tomorrow, get breakfast or something?”

Dean beams. “Hell yeah.”

Cas gives him that drunkenly happy soft smile again, like he can't believe this is really happening to him. They start walking again, since they're going the same way. “I'll call you around noon?”

Dean leans over and breathes in the smell of Castiel's skin, nose brushing into Cas's neck above the collar of Dean's jacket. “Yeah,” he says. “You can give me back the coat then.”

Castiel shivers, his step faltering. He breathes for a moment, then untangles his wrist from the strap of his mask. He holds it over. “You bring me this,” he says, voice low and promising, “and we'll trade.”

Dean takes it. The mask is cool under his fingers, too heavy for plastic, maybe aluminum or a thin resin. He strokes his thumb over the bumps of blue rhinestones on the cheek, across the cold smooth silver lips. “Deal,” he says, burying the tremble that wants to creep into his voice.

_And maybe I can cancel some plans with Benny,_ Dean thinks. _Tell him to go take some alone time with Andrea, and order up a couple sets of clean sheets from room service._

They reach Dean's hotel first. At long last, Dean feels tired enough for sleep. He's glad his last hurricane was long enough ago that he shouldn't have to worry about a hangover.

Castiel pauses at the corner of the block, several yards away from the door to the Conti. He pushes Dean under the sidewalk awning up to the wall of the hotel, ignoring the people still bustling and passing back and forth along the sidewalk, whistling off-key and toasting drunkenly with red Solo cups.

Dean leaves this last kiss more chaste than the one voicemail one. Cas kisses tenderly, communicating all the awfulness of saying goodbye in the press of lips and his hand on Dean's cheek. Dean wants to live forever in the flavor of almond cookies and the fishy-booze smell of New Orleans in the middle of the night.

When Cas pulls back, he licks his lips one last time. “Good night,” he says.

“Night, chère,” Dean says teasingly, using one of the words Benny drops all the time. He knows it means something like sweetheart, but he's never used it himself, and it sits odd and foreign in his mouth. He feels stupid as soon as he says it.

But Cas gives him a stupid little grin and steps back, tucking his hands into the pockets of Dean's coat. “See you,” he says, and turns and walks away.

Dean watches the block until Castiel turns out of sight. He still stands there for a few more minutes, getting colder by the second, before he has the presence of mind to turn and stumble the last few yards to the hotel door.

Benny's already passed out when Dean gets inside, but he rouses while Dean thumps around in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his shorts. Dean tries to rinse the body paint off his chest as best he can at the tiny sink, too tired for a shower. He stares at the weeping mask on the countertop next to him while he scrubs his chest with a towel, getting red and gold smears everywhere.

When Dean emerges relatively clean and staggering with exhaustion, Benny's pushed up onto his elbows in the single bed. “Hey,” he croaks. “Where'd you wander off to?”

Dean lifts the mask over his face, smirking behind it while Benny blinks in confusion. “Nowhere much,” he says, muffled. “Go back to sleep.”

Benny shrugs, falls down, and does just that. He's already snoring by the time Dean clambers into the sofa bed.

It takes no time at all for Dean to follow him. Happy, content, exhilarated, nervous – he's never been so many different positive things all at the same time.

Smiling into his lumpy pillow, mask and phone both resting next to his hand, Dean sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been to NOLA but not during Mardi Gras, so I apologize for any inaccuracies there. Have no idea if it's actually possible to get out of sight like that in Louis Armstrong Park. I tried to keep details vague enough for plausibility.
> 
> ngl Cas should have taken the condom offer. Went with characterization over coming across as a PSA. However, the PSA is, use a damn condom.


End file.
